


Of Broken Bottles and Forgotten Memories

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU - Greasers, Blood, Fights, Gangs, M/M, Medical Trauma, Psychological Trauma, based off The Outsiders, gay boys trying to find themselves in this deep dark world, switchblades
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cronus Ampora is the antagonist with a love for his switchblade, Mituna Captor is the gang pet, and Kankri Vantas just can't seem to catch a break.</p><p>(Greaserstuck AU, based on the book The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Broken Bottles and Forgotten Memories

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all know just this one chapter took me about a month to write and edit. So please, enjoy the greasiness. :D
> 
> Also, a thing. There's a lot of CroTuna in this chapter, but that's not the main pairing of the story. Just thought I'd note that uvu

  


_He followed me over here, to the bench by the curb and the streetlamp. The tall leader of the two is staring straight at me with lifeless, cold eyes.  I notice that he’s got an odd expression on his face. Not a smirk, but a pleasant look of sorts. Calm, serene. It’s only making me angrier. My conscience begs me not to tackle him, but I’m an idiot and do it anyway. I pounce. He’s got it under control. He raises that broken bottle like it’s a pencil and digs it into my face. I can practically hear the scape as the bottle moves diagonally, and I try not to scream and weep and run away as I feel white-hot pain pierce through my body and small shards of the glass embed themselves into my forehead, my cheek. He’s left two parallel scratches. All the way across. I try to throw a punch and end up crumpling to the ground. He gives me a condescending little smile. He knows he’s won. And it took him virtually no effort whatsoever. There’s one behind him, I notice. Short, with a red sweater and jet-black hair. He’s looking at me--at us--like he’s sorry. But I ignore him. I don’t need his pity. The streetlamps seem brighter now. They’re shining right on me, like a spotlight on a circus act. That’s definitely how I feel right now. I can’t take it and my eyes close, stinging madly from the blood that’s dripping into them._

  


When I step out onto the slick grass, all I can think about are two things: Mituna Captor and my switchblade. It’s in my front pocket, left side. I can even check to make sure. Look, see? Perfectly in place.

Wait.

I turn on my heel, back to his door, and slam on it. He opens it, wearing a cocky smile. Little shit.

“This ain’t funny, sweetheart,” I say, glaring at him. Well, at least I try to. With a guy with a face like that, it’s kind of hard to be mad at him.

“What the hell are you talking about now?” He laughs. It’s this weird snorting and hissing sound. Weird, but definitely endearing.

“I think you know damn well what I’m talking about.” I’ve got no time for this. The rumble’s in a few hours and I need my six-inch blade. I promised all the greasers I’d have it. “My switch. It’s gone.”

Mituna rolls his eyes at me. I like them. They’re blue and brown, identical to the rest of his family. “Did you have it when you came over?”

I consider that. The pockets of my jacket did feel lighter when I walked to his house. Besides, it’s not like you’d need a blade in this part of town. The suburbs are harmless, which is probably why Mituna lives here. He doesn’t like conflict. He’s usually the sensible one, the one who pulls me back when I just want to destroy something. I seriously don’t know why he calls himself one of us, and why I let him. Whatever.

“Goddammit, stop being smart,” I sigh.

“Stop being stupid,” He retorts, and now it’s my turn to roll my eyes at him. Regardless, he steps out of his house and shuts the door behind him, grabbing my sleeve and leading me toward the small pond several yards away. More like a puddle, actually.

He lays down in the dewy grass and I follow him, putting my hands behind my head. I can’t risk fucking up the grease that has looked so perfect throughout the day.

Mituna scoots a little closer to me, and I do the same. I put my hand in his and lace our fingers together. He gives my hand a light squeeze. I squeeze back. He does that stupid laugh again.

“Cro?”

“Yeah?”

“You smell like car oil and desperation.”

“You love it.”

“Fuck you.”

“You know I’d like that.”

“True.”

After that, we just lie there, in comfortable silence, looking into each other’s eyes. It feels like routine now. Every day, I make my way from my mansion on the hill to this guy’s house. Every day, we go to this pond and talk. About music, movies, people we love, people we despise. Sometimes, we say nothing at all. Other times, we can’t say anything, because our mouths are locked together.

We’re best friends, or maybe something more. We need each other.

I pull out a pack of Marlboros and light up. He asks for one, but I don’t let him. No one bums cigarettes off me. It just doesn’t happen.

But, looking at him today, I feel a little generous, so I make him a deal.

“Here, babe. Get real close,” I instruct him, and he does. I take a long, slow drag and lean forward, opening my mouth slightly and breathing out the smoke into his. Mituna’s smoked enough not to cough, so he just leans his forehead against mine and breathes the excess back out. We continue this for a few more drags, until I stub the stick out, keeping him close to me. He smells so sweet, like honey and innocence, even though I know he’s nothing but harmless. He can be vicious when he wants to be, especially when it comes to beating the shit--or trying to--out of those godawful Socs. The thought of them makes the hand that’s not in Mituna’s clench.

And then we’re kissing, my lips clashing with his in that oh-so-familiar way, his inexperience and my inexperience showing in how our teeth accidentally click together. It’s all so intimate, but we both know it’s not real. It’s never real between us. We’re friends and always will be, this is just an escape. A false feeling of affection. Before, we thought it was genuine. Now that we know that it’s not, I don’t know why we continue.

But we do. I brush my tongue against his lips and he lets me probe his mouth, like clockwork. We’ve done this countless times, it all seems to meld together into a huge blur. _Yet we do it anyway._

Before long, I’m pulling away from his mouth and kissing down his neck, leaving a mark among many others. Most of them are from me, I’m pretty sure. Some of them must be from someone else. It makes a slight spark go off in my stomach. Someone’s been leaving souvenirs here, even though they know he’s mine. Everyone knows he’s mine.

But, as much as I hate to say it, he isn’t. He isn’t and never will be.

When I pull back, he’s got a faraway look in his eye. Like he’s pretending. Pretending I’m someone else, someone he truly loves in a romantic way.

But I don’t care. I need this affection from someone, and so does he.

“You going to the rumble later?” I ask him, like what we did isn’t the most thought-provoking thing in the world. And like I’ve completely forgotten about my lost switchblade. Which isn’t entirely a lie.

“Duh, of course I’m going.” Mituna punches my arm lightly. I act like it doesn’t hurt.

“Alright, cool. I’ll, uh...see you soon, then.” I offer him a slight smile before I push myself up to my feet, straightening my jacket. Mituna comes up with me and kisses me again, slow and slick, just the way he knows I like it. I can’t help but return it, running my tongue over his twice--he has a thing with twos--before I pull away from him again and get the hell out of there.

God, those kisses just ruin me.

  


* * *

  


“MEEN!” I don’t bother knocking on her door, barging in anyways. Not like she expects a polite little doorbell ring or something from me. I manage to wade through the clutter of her apartment. There’s stuff all over the floor--jewelry, money, even a lacy bra--that I throw a halfhearted glance at before I make it to her room. I’ve been here too many times to give it a second thought, anyway.

Sure enough, she’s in there, lying on her bed, reading some book about running a business. When she notices I’m there, Meenah gets up and navigates herself expertly across the messy room to me, her long braids floating behind her as she walks.

“Hey, Cro,” She smiles, her crooked teeth showing. “How’s that scar of yours doin’?”

Instinctively, I put a hand up to my face, feeling the smooth tissue from where that bottle scraped me a few months ago. It feels like the small shards of glass are still there, still stuck in my flesh. I shudder involuntarily.

“Oh, sorry.” Meenah gives me a sympathetic look. “Forgot about how that weirds you out.”

I shrug, like it’s no big deal. It really isn’t.

“Eh, it’s fine. I came to ask you something.”

“Is it about Captor? Because I’m really tired of you tryin’ to make you realize that you’re nothin’ more than fuckbuddies.” She rolls her eyes. I glare at her.

“No, wiseass. Watch your tone. I’m just wonderin’ if you’ve seen my switch around,” I tell her, acknowledging the mess around us. “Dunno if it’s too late to go searching through all the shit you’ve got on your floor.”

“Shut up, rich kid.” Meenah slaps my arm. Is it just “Hurt the Ampora” day? Jesus. “Not like you can find anything in that mansion of yours.”

“How many times do I have to tell ya?” I say. “Pops makes bank. He spends it all on Eri, not me. I only come to him for cigs.”

“Suuure,” she snickers. “Because that leather jacket is totally not some frou-frou designer bullshit.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’d like that.”

Do I ever get a break around here?

“Anyway, back to the subject at hand. Where’s the knife?” I raise an eyebrow. It’s a possibility that she stole it. She’s always looking for stuff to sell.

But Meenah’s my best friend. We’ve known each other forever, and we treat each other like brother and sister. She knows how much that knife means to me, right?

Aw, who am I kidding.

She considers for a moment. “Shouty took it from your jacket after you came by earlier, I think.”

My lip immediately curls into a snarl. I had dropped by Meenah’s apartment this morning, like I always do . We had gone out for milkshakes, and I had left my jacket here. Meenah, being the super-smart gal she is, left her apartment open while we were gone. “Why the fuck would he do that?”

“I dunno, go find him.”

“Fine, whatever. Thanks, Meen.”

“Anytime, Cron-ass.” She throws the nickname over her shoulder. I flip her off and gingerly step back towards the door. I’ve got to find Shouty.

  


* * *

  


The third time I stand in front of someone residence, I pound on the door as hard as I possibly can. Little Shouty’s gonna get it. He’s gonna get it, and hard. How should I ruin the little fucker first for thinking he can steal my knife? While I’m thinking of great ways to torture the fella and lighting a cigarette, I don’t notice the door opening.

“Excuse me.” A soft voice can be heard from in front of me, stern and precise. “But I do believe that our door is not in any way shown to be your own personal punching bag.”

I blink and look over at the guy standing in front of me. Well, more like down. He, like Shouty, is pretty short. Jet-black hair. A red sweater and khaki pants that are a bit wrinkled in the crotch, like he’s got them hiked up to his chest. His eyes are a light brown, and they’re set on me.

Yep, I’ve seen him before. A Soc. Shouty’s big bro.

It’s definitely not uncommon for greasers to have siblings that are Socs. Some of them just want to be rich, prissy kids, and the other few want to go with the way I went--hair gel, leather jackets, and cigarettes. This one definitely took the former route.

However, what surprises me isn’t that he’s a total prude. It’s the fact that Shouty’s place is a dump. A tiny little house, enclosed by a fence, with nothing more than a few splotches of yellow crabgrass as a yard. The gray paint on the house is flaky and scratched.

And, with a house like that, this guy can afford clothes like a fuzzy red turtleneck and khakis?

Usually, if I see a Soc anywhere, I’ll glare and growl and show how much I despise them. But he’s different. He hasn’t hurt me, or anyone, for that matter.

Yet.

I put one arm up, leaning against the doorframe. “Sorry, chief. Just lookin’ for Sho--Karkat.”  I take a slow drag and exhale, not bothering to move away from him. The smoke floats right into his face. He coughs, like he’s never inhaled it before.

“Please refrain from smoking on our property,” He says sharply, once he’s finished with hacking his brains out. “Karkat is here, yes. Should I call him for you?”

“Yeah. Can ya make it quick, sweetheart? I haven’t got all day.” Another drag, which I graciously blow out of his general direction.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me that,”  He scowls, turning over his shoulder. “Karkat, you’ve got a visitor!”

I hear a faint voice from down the hall. Raspy and scratchy. I know it’s Shouty. “Who the fuck is it?”

“It seems it’s one of your friends. He keeps blowing smoke from his cigarette into my face. It’s quite unpleasant, actually.”

I lean in a little bit, making sure to make my voice sound extremely venomous. “Yeah, Shouty. We’ve gotta have a discussion.”

He can’t back out of that. I am four years older than him, anyway.

He steps in front of me, crossing his arms next to Sweater Guy. If I didn’t know better, it looked like they were twins. Disregarding the fact that Shouty has lines etched on his forehead from frowning so much.

“What do you want now, creep?” He growls at me. His brother elbows him, murmuring a quiet “Karkat, be polite!”

I lean a little, close to Shouty’s face. “I want my blade. You took it.”

He narrows his eyes. A challenge. “Who told you that?”

“Meenah.”

“Well, too bad, asshole. I don’t have it.”

“Meenah doesn’t lie to me. You have, on multiple occasions.”

“I don’t fucking have it!” He snaps. What a lie. I can see an oval shape in his pocket. He has it.

“I can see it in your jeans, kiddo. Give it to me.” My voice is dangerously low. He glares at me before handing it over. I am now reunited with my six-inch switchblade. My pride and joy.

Just because I can, I flick it open. Shouty doesn’t flinch. His brother, however, does.

There’s a rumble in just a little bit. If I put the blade on Karkat, he won’t help us out. That kid can hold a grudge. I need to keep him on his good side for the fight. For a guy of only fourteen years of age, he sure can pack a punch.

His brother, however. A Soc. A guy I’ve seen in lots of fights, but one in particular. The one a few months before, when I got my face sliced. Just remembering that look of pure sorrow he gave me makes my blood boil.

So I decide to go with him.

Sure enough, poor little Sweater Boy is pushed against the outer wall of his house, a blade pressed lightly to his throat. I’m not going to hurt him. I have till the rumble to do that. It’s just fun--empowering, even--to watch the different expressions of horror cross his face.

Shouty knows me well enough to know that this is just a bluff, so he keeps his trap shut. For once.

“You got a name?” I ask him, too casually. Waiting for an answer, I pull away the blade, just a bit.

“Kankri Vantas. Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” He says, half-sarcastic, those chocolate-brown eyes looking up to me again. I stare right back.

“Cronus Ampora. Nice to meet you, too.” He’s squirming a little, and I think it’s more because of our unbreaking eye contact than the knife. All that escapes him, sound-wise, is a small, strangled noise.

“You going to the rumble?” I ask him. He nods.

“Sweet. I’ll catch ya later, then.” I’m still looking straight at him. I feel like, if I look hard enough, I’ll be able to see to his soul. For a quick second, I actually press the flat part of the knife against his skin.

“We can finish what we started there, how’s that sound?”

He kicks me in the shin. “Release me at once, Cronus.”

I do as he says. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s go get the others.” Shouty finally listens without complaint and grabs his jacket from the coat rack just inside his house, slinging it over his shoulders. We start walking out of his house, looking over my shoulder, back at Kankri for a second. That name’s gonna stick.

Karkat catches my attention as he grumbles. “I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t try your fucked-up excuses of flirtation on my brother when I’m around.”

  


* * *

  


We’re all piled in one car, like we always are when we go to a rumble. I could never risk a Soc scratching my pride and joy, so we take Meenah’s old station wagon instead. She’s driving, with Porrim in our passenger seat. That girl scares me half to death, to be honest. But she’s the motherly figure of our group, the one who makes sure everyone’s taken care of. I feel like I can tell her anything. Mituna, Shouty and I are in the back, and in the trunk is Shouty’s little friend, who also happens to be the brother of the guy that I really feel the need to strangle.

Porrim’s soft voice brings my attention back. “Does everyone have some sort of weapon?”

Shouty gives a devious smirk and flicks out a four-inch switch. His little friend follows suit, showing us what looks to be a broken glass bottle of soda.

Porrim shoots me a worried glance. “Are you going to be alright, Cronus?”

I nod. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Try not to ruin your face again.” Mituna adds.

“Thanks, babe. You’re really encouraging.” I sigh.

“You’re welcome, ‘babe.’” He mimics me, giggling. I roll my eyes.

“Ain’t my fault my voice is smooth and perfect.”

“Don’t feed me that bullshit.”

“Whatever.”

“Pfft. That fruity little accent of yours totally fucked that word up. _W-vhatev-wer_.”

“That fruity little lisp of yours is gonna get you in real big trouble if you don’t shutup,” I growl, mussing up his hair. It’s blonde on top from the time he spends outside, but underneath it gets darker until it’s a medium chestnut brown. He tilts his head back, trying to push my hand away. When he does so, I spot the array of marks on his neck. One of them looks fresh, the one I made. But there’s another, a darker one, right below his jaw. It’s big and purple and ugly, and nothing close to what I could’ve done. I feel a bit of bile rise in the back of my throat, but I ignore it and look away.

“Jesus shit, can you guys not?” Shouty interjects. “We are on our way to a fucking _fight_ and I don’t want to make this any worse than it has to be. I hate hearing you guys bicker like a married couple, it’s stupid and it’s not like the unresolved sexual tension between you two is bad enough. Just shut the fuck up.” I hear his friend in the back mumble something in agreement. No wonder, since both of their brothers are Socs. Even if their parents are a certain class, sometimes kids just don’t want to cooperate. Karkat’s little friend is definitely a perfect example. His family is almost just as loaded as mine, but he didn’t want to go with the regular “rich kid” standard. The guy chose to band with us, against his brother. Because of that, rumbles are always tough for those kids.

Even though it’d be right as a greaser to tell the poor cats that they should just suck it up and move the hell on, I don’t pair them up with their siblings for a rumble. It just seems wrong. And, seeing as my baby brother is so important to me, I know how they feel.

“Alright, buoys and gills, we’ve arrived,” Meenah announces, parking her car haphazardly in the abandoned lot downtown. The pavement is old and cracked, and littered with weeds and smashed beer bottles. The two empty buildings that surround the lot have brick walls that are stained with who-knows-what. This place is greaser territory. The brakes squeak a little and it makes me wince. We all stumble out of the station wagon, lighting our cigarettes almost simultaneously. Except for Mituna, of course. And Shouty’s friend. He lights a joint instead. We seem calm and collected when we look at them, but both groups know it’s just an act.

Standing in front of us are five Socs. The one standing closest to me looks younger in the face, but definitely not in build. He’s got long black hair and bright blue eyes with a determined gleam in them. He doesn’t have a weapon, but his fists are clenched tight so that the muscles under his button-up shirt bulge. I’ve seen him before in school. He’s well-mannered and had a fondness for horses. But you can see it, he thought of us as nothing but dirt under his shiny shoes. A bit behind the first boy is one that looks like his twin, but bigger, more mature. I also recognize him, he’s in my class. His hair is tied up into a ponytail, and he’s got a sweater with a fucking horse on it. He, too, has no weapons. Which I doubt he’d need. Sometimes I wonder what the Zahhaks’ workout routine is.

The guy next to Horuss is taller and lankier, a stick, actually. He doesn’t look like a Soc at all. Actually, if someone from out of town were to check him out, they’d think he was one of us. His hair isn’t in a full mohawk, but it’s definitely spiked, with red tips on the edges. He’s wearing jeans, but nice ones. The type I would wear on a regular basis. The type _that_ I wear on a regular basis.

God, do I hate Rufioh. Fucking poser trying to cramp my style.

He looks at me and spits on the ground. In his hand, he’s got a blade, but it’s a small one, only about three inches. What a loser. Just for show, I pull out my six inch and flick it open, picking out my teeth nonchalantly. I see him flinch, and I can’t help but let a sly smirk crawl over my face.

Next, I see the boy I met earlier. He’s already looking straight at me when my eyes settle on him. He’s the shortest Soc there, and he’s still wearing that red sweater. I grin at him and twirl my knife around in my hands, and he rolls his eyes.

He fucking _rolls his eyes at me_.

He’s not even scared, just annoyed.

I’m about to put that knife up to his throat again, to see that he’s actually helpless, that he really is  frightened of me, but the sound of an exhale of breath catches my attention. I look over and there he is, staring at me. His eyes are brown, but nowhere near warm. The boy is so pale, he looks dead. His hair is thick and wavy, poking out in all directions, like a halo around his head.

Psh. The thought of Kurloz Makara with a halo makes me want to break down in hysterical peals of laughter.

He tilts his head to the side slightly. What’s even creepier about him is that he never talks. Completely calm, completely quiet, like he’s literally got no personality.

He reaches up and points to the scar on my face. My eye twitches slightly. Kurloz moves one finger down one of my scars, then gives me a thumbs-up, smiling in that calm way, completely unfazed by the fact that I have a weapon in my hands.

Meenah, and Porrim look at me, giving me concerned glances. I ignore them, and ignore Mituna, who is staring at Kurloz with an odd expression on his face.

I glare up at him. The fucking guy has a few inches on me, I’ll admit. “We gonna sit here all day or are we gonna cut some throats?”

“Let’s fight!” Rufioh pipes up, and just because I know I scare him, I get in his face, holding my knife up and pointing it under his chin.

“Look, pal,” I snarl. “No one was asking _you_.”

The boy in the horse sweater steps up and yanks my arms back, restraining me. “I suggest you refrain from behaving that way around Rufioh again, if you value your life.” His voice is calm and has a razor-sharp edge to it. I struggle and manage to keep my switch in my hands, raking the edge over one of his cheeks. He drops me out of shock and holds a hand up to his face, examining the wound I just inflicted on him.

After that happens, everyone takes the cue to jump into action. Mituna pounces on Rufioh, and the Zahhaks try to pull him back. Karkat, Meenah and Porrim sprint over to help him, leaving me with Kankri and Kurloz. I want to get Kankri out of the way first, so I run toward him and knock him down. He glares at me and struggles. Kurloz just watches.

“Nice to see you again.” I smile at him.

He’s struggling, but I’ve got him pinned.

“Cronus, you’re hurting me. I understand that it’s customary for greasers to have violent tendencies, but this is absurd. I met you not two hours ago.” He’s glaring at me hatefully, and I let out a short, wry laugh, but say nothing more.

I then realize the dilemma I’m in. I’ve got both my arms clasping his wrists and pinning them above his head, and my knees are trapping his legs. My arms aren’t free, and I have to scrape him up at least a little. So I decide to move myself down, one forearm crossing over his wrists and his neck. Consequently, it makes my face drop down a few inches, until I’m hovering right above him. His cheeks are red from the lack of airflow, since I’m pressing down on his windpipe, but I tell myself that it’s because of me.

I’m looking him straight in the eye, and he’s looking back. They’re so _brown_ , it’s almost like he’s engulfing me in his stare. For a moment, my grip slackens. He exhales heavily, his breath moving into my face and mingling with mine.

“Release me, Cronus. This is highly triggering and immoral. You greasers need to learn a thing or two about manners.” He pauses in between sentences to cough.

I can’t help it, his eyes paired with my instincts are too much to bear. “Then maybe you should teach me, _babe_.” I spit out the last word and laugh again in a practically maniacal way, pressing the point of my knife against his jaw and watching the blood trickle down his neck. Lightly, I trace his skin with the point, leaving him with a few lines of red.

I want to do more, I want to take advantage of this compromising position we’re in and do something terrible. But I can’t. I could never kill anyone, regardless of what they look like. And this kitten is no exception.

I’m about to let him go when a force pushes me off Kankri and sends me rolling on the cement. I manage to get to my feet, panting to try to regain the breath that has been knocked out of me. Kurloz glares at me. Guess he decided he’d had enough of watching.

Kankri wants to respond, I can see it, but as he opens his mouth, Kurloz places a single finger to his lips. He stiffens, but his mouth closes, and all he can do is watch before Gamzee grabs him and pins him against the brick wall of a building. I try not to notice as I square my shoulders and twirl my blade in my fingers.

Kurloz reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sharp object. It’s small, but I can make out a wooden handle and lots of deadly-looking barbs. Oh, shit.

He’s got a chain.

He aims is at me and cracks it, like some sort of whip. The barbs hit my chest, a place where my jacket doesn’t cover me. I look down, and my white shirt is ripped and stained with red. The cuts the barbs make sting and smart. I growl, but all he gives me is that smile.

Just as I’m about to go in and rip his throat out, I hear a loud, rasping scream that cuts off abruptly into silence. I know the voice andI start running toward the others.

There’s a tight circle around the opposite wall, with greasers and Socs alike. The Zahhaks are wide-eyed, and Horuss is shaking like a leaf. Meenah and Karkat are yelling at Rufioh, and Porrim is kneeling down next to Mituna, frantically trying to get him to regain consciousness.

Mituna is slumped against the wall, his black-and-yellow striped shirt torn almost in half. His hair is matted and stained dark with blood. In fact, there’s blood all the way down his face.

My stomach immediately drops, and I shove people mercilessly to get up close to him. Even the Zahhaks falter.

“‘Tuna?” My voice is a raspy whisper, and my vision is blurry from the tears pooling in my eyes. Porrim wraps her tattooed arms around me, and I let her.

“Cronus, darling…” She begins to speak, but I interrupt her.

“Who did it.”

“What?” Someone says.

I hold my hands up in front of my face. They’re shaking. “Who. Did. It.” I repeat, through clenched teeth. Horuss goes pale, so I decide to go with him. I stand up and step closer to him, and I can feel my eyes twitch out of pure rage.

Horuss does nothing, just closes his eyes. He knows what he’s done. I don’t care if he doesn’t know his strength. I don’t care if he did it on purpose. I don’t care.

He hurt Tuna. _My_ Tuna.

So, without any hesitation, I jam the knife into his stomach. He sinks to his knees. Rufioh’s eyes widen, and he starts to shout at me.

“I’ll kill you, you fucking bastard! I’ll rip your heart out!”

But Karkat somehow manages to shut him up, and everything is quiet. Everything is silent until I hear a low murmur, almost too soft to hear.

It’s Kurloz, and he’s leaning over Mituna, completely ignoring the blood. He’s got a hand on one of his cheeks, and is mumbling some sort of gibberish I can’t understand.

I don’t care, I don’t care.

I look at his face one more time and scream until I hear sirens and my vocal cords break.

* * *

  



End file.
